


All I Want

by theunremarkable



Series: Kodaline [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 2010s, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25183237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theunremarkable/pseuds/theunremarkable
Summary: Bucky thinks through the weight of his words, and the truth behind them. It will be a sort of peace to stop wondering, to stop searching.To rest.They both can.He wonders if this is what his body has been waiting for. That it's held off aging, cursing him with immortality, condemned to haunt to Earth until he's fulfilled his only ever purpose. He hopes, he may even begin to pray, that when tonight is done, he will finally be able to join him.“It’ll be nice to bring him home,” he whispers finally.~In 2011, the body of Steve Rogers is found.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Kodaline [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815748
Comments: 77
Kudos: 268





	1. All I want is nothing more

**Author's Note:**

> Each of the stories in The Kodaline Series will be accompanied by a little soundtrack by Kodaline that inspired the work, either by title, lyrics, feelings or otherwise.
> 
> I mean, this whole song just speaks for itself. Except, of course, that there is nobody like Steve.
> 
> It's tied first as my favourite song, _ever_.
> 
> [All I Want, by Kodaline and the RTE Concert Orchestra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--wzoXW_l1k)

3:14am.

That’s the time his phone shows atop the caller ID. But it’s the Director. A call at 3:14am is probably important. A call at any time from the Director is important, so Bucky rolls over, pushing the sheets down as he accepts.

“Barnes.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line, and Bucky wonders if the Director himself is just waking. Bucky hasn’t need more than a split second to be alert and awake since Camp McCoy, but then again, he’s-

“Bucky,” but it’s shaky. Wavering. And only a breath.

It makes him still. He’s Agent Barnes. James, at a pinch, or when he's messed up. But ‘Bucky’ is personal, reserved for only a select few. Certainly not the Director. Something’s happened. These aren’t orders. And it’s only then that he remembers that he’s retired, has been for years, contract only. 

“What’s wrong?” His thoughts go to Natasha. Where was she last? Her death would warrant a phone call at 3am. Or Tony- factions have risen since his kidnapping. “What’s happened?” He demands. He’s calm, but spiraling. Soon. Just get it out. Get it over with. Then at least he knows what he’s dealing with, what he has to fight. Fighting’s the only thing he feels good at. The only control he has.

“It’s, I-,” and Bucky hears the long intake of breath. “They found him.”

There it is.

He doesn’t need more than that.

His body does though. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, dropping his head into his free hand, long hair spilling around it. He starts to slowly rub, as if he’s massaging the words in, as if it will make his brain regain control quicker.

“I just got the call. I don’t know anything else, I just wanted you to be the first to know.”

Bucky thinks he mumbles out a thanks, but he can’t be sure. He doesn’t think he does, actually.

“I’ll send Romanoff over as soon as we’re done. No doubt Stark will want in on this, even if not, I’ll have a S.H.I.E.L.D jet for you.”

The words are a swirling mass outside his mind. There's no sense to them. The massaging is not working.

As if the Director can sense it, more likely Bucky’s room is bugged for audio and visual, he says, “Don’t worry about details. We’ll sort it out. Just let us know if you need anything.”

He does manage a thanks out this time, before the line disconnects.

Natasha won’t take long. Even if she was halfway across the world, she wouldn’t take long. Not that he minds if she sees him like this, but he’s had more than enough time to-

To what?

Bucky’s not quite sure what he’s feeling, or why he’s feeling this way. 

He’s had a long time to prepare, for a better word, the only word, for this moment. A lifetime. A lifetime’s stream of thoughts, scenarios, Bucky’s own private movie projector, of the call, the process, the aftermath. And when he laughed himself off at the absurdity of them individually, he’d think of a million more. 

But it’s finally here. The end scene. The finale. Roll credits.

He sits for a moment, just one, that’s all he allows himself. It’s been too long already. 

It’s still early, he thinks about making a cup of coffee. It’s not the caffeine, it has no effect on him and hasn’t for years, but maybe he’ll benefit from the comfort of a warm drink. He’s not sure where he‘ll be going, no doubt it’ll be cold, based on where they found the Tesseract, where the coordinates of the last radio transmission came from. He heads to the kitchen to start the coffee machine, but his stomach twists at the smell.

He sighs. So this is how it’s gonna be.

He keeps it running, for Natasha, when she gets here. For all he knows, she’s already here, just waiting for him to get his shit together. He wonders if this is something he wants to do by himself. But Tasha is-

Nice. Good. Comforting, like a coffee. But she can warm more than just his hands. His whole body, his memories, his mind. Just not his heart. 

Again, his stomach twists.

The comfort he craves is one he can’t have. One that he hasn’t had since 1945.

He hopes this will bring a different sort of comfort. Rest. Acceptance. No, he’s already accepted. There was nothing to accept. It happened. But he's old now, 90-something, he stopped counting after the turn of the century because it seemed pointless, especially when he still looks close to 28. So rest would be nice.

He’ll be lost without these thoughts, these scenarios, the predictions of this moment, and the moments to come. They’ve kept him occupied and almost entertained all these years, alone at night. They’re akin to a friendship, in their own right, though Bucky is aware that they’re nothing more than a ghost of the real friendship. He’s never been good at divining the future, it’s been all wrong so far and this is most notable inexactitude but he thinks one day he might find something else to take their place. 

For all the future has provided, and how much he’s allowed Tony, nay, Tony has _forced_ on him, his coffee isn’t instant, but he can't stay still to wait for it. 

He traipses back upstairs, faintly aware that pyjamas won't do for his new and immediate future. 

A small crease appears between his eyebrows. Yes, he’s thought this through, from all camera angle and lenses, and he’s prepared a script and assumed his reaction, though right now he feels like this is improvisation. But never once had he prepared what he would _wear._ It seems trivial, standing in front of his closet, but also suddenly the most important decision.

It will most likely be cold, his brain registers. Again, he sighs as he reminds himself that, he’s already concluded the temperature. Natasha will have a field day with his mental state right now.

His fingers dance across dress shirts, jackets, plain Henleys, a soft hoodie- now _that’s_ comfort. But they won’t do. Towards the end of the closet is his full dress uniform, slight holes where the medals, now packed away in his study’s top draw, pin in. But that uniform would make Bucky look like a stranger, and feel like a stranger. Whatever he’s feeling right now, he doesn’t need to add further discomfort.

His hands still trace down the scratchy, heavy fabric. He hates it. Never wanted it in the first place, wanted to rip it off, burn it so he could go home and live out the life he thought he deserved. The life he wanted, and wanted to share. But his hand is still gravitated to it, stroking the pills, until he realises that he’s drawn to what is behind it.

Two uniforms, until recently no more than shadows in his closest.

Perfectly preserved in their cryovac bags, the first is his Howling Commandos uniform. He doesn’t question how she got it, he doesn’t question anything about Natasha since five minutes after he met her, but he knows it's actually his, spare, from the base camp he never returned to **.** He’s never even taken it out, she assured him there was nothing in the pockets. But he can’t wear that either. How dare he bring that uniform, tied to that memory, into a place that has perhaps been a small sanctuary of peace for its inhabitant for 66 years. 

So his fingers instead push to the final hanger. A variation of sorts, a joint effort from Tony and Natasha, that he’s never worn.

It’s a strange sort of offering. Had anyone else not known him as thoroughly as those two, it perhaps would have been insensitive or the first domino of destabilisation, but looking at it now, he only experiences the same small wave of calm as he did when he first received it. 

It’s a full tactical uniform, based off his S.H.I.E.L.D uniform, subsequently based off his uniform as the Asset. The Soviets, Hydra, the bastards that they were, they got this right. His gear during his active time never failed him, held him back, or offered him less than a guardian angel’s worth of protection. It’s comfortable, light weight, free flowing and has an endless supply of holsters and hiding areas for whichever weapon he should choose that day. Not that he had a choice back then, but he does now. He still gets contained glances of fear when he suits up for work, but with structural and colour requirements of a S.H.I.E.L.D uniform, there weren’t many differences he could make to it. And he found that, strangely, he didn’t want to. 

No muzzle is nice, though.

But this, this gift, he now accepts calling it, is a perfect mixture of his S.H.I.E.L.D, Asset and Howlies uniform. They kept the navy blue of the top, but the fit is is slimmer, with much less of a collar. Instead of buckling horizontally, like the Asset uniform, this new uniform connects on a slightly downwards diagonal. Replacing the chest connection for a back gun holster, Tony has fashioned it to fit under his arms. It’s a detail Bucky didn’t notice until it was pointed out, but Tony, since his own encapturement, has become more defensive and protective about Bucky’s less pleasant portions of his past. Particularly the ones that highlighted submission, and lack of autonomy. He was all about advocating Bucky’s freedom, but left the original wings off as Bucky had long since gotten a more permanent method on his metal arm, replacing the last traces of his brief dance with communism. There’s an extra sleeve, detachable, yet another choice Tony has offered.

Choice is... Still difficult. Even after all this time.

The pants are tighter, though still padded, and less billowy, and they'd forgone a utility belt for pockets and holsters that simply attached to the sides of his pants. Thankfully the future had upgraded boots too, both practical and comfortable. 

Bucky changes into a black skivvy, one that will show off his arm, he wants to be honest in this final moment, then takes to opening the vacuum on the uniform. This is the first time he’s actually opening it, and the moment feels as precious to him as when it was presented. He holds it in front of him, inspects it from every angle in the dark. He memorises the grooves, the feel of the fabric, somehow both comfortable and reinforced enough for everything short of a close-range-IED. He takes his time feeling the buttons, the hems, the stitches. Strangely, though he hadn’t worn his original uniform for almost 70 years, it all feels eerily familiar. An exact match. Everything he traces, he made sure to do so with both hands.

Natasha is surely here by now.

He unbuttons the top gently, consciously using his left hand. He opens up to slip it on but his eye catches. He doesn’t quite manage a gasp, but the small puff of exhale says a lot for Bucky.

On the inside of the jacket, the left breast, a small white star. Bucky knows without knowing that when he lines it up on his body, it will fit just over his heart. 

Metal grinds together with a small whir as his eyes prick, a sensation he hasn’t felt for years. So this is how it is going to be. 

Damn his body for betraying him like this. 

To be fair, his mind is not doing much better.

He finishes dressing quickly, giving himself a quick pause in the mirror to run his fingers through his hair in an effort to present himself. He stills, fingers catching on a knot, face tightening as he takes in the whole look.

Tony did well.

A little too well.

Though his hair is longer, his uniform tighter and modernised in a way would have been seen as indecent during his service, he looks more like James Buchanan Barnes, of the 107th, than he had since 1945. It makes him stand taller, accentuates his body in a way that screams command, more than just a Sergeant. Like he is about to take over the whole operation, give out orders to willing soldiers. All without opening his mouth.

Somehow, he doesn’t think anyone will disobey. 

In fact, he knows with the first sense of certainty tonight that the people he is about to meet will do whatever he wanted, even if he turns up in his pyjamas.

He doesn’t bother arming himself before heading downstairs. Nor does he instinctively reach for his lack of weapons when he sees Natasha lounging on a stool, her feet crossed up on the island. As usual, her face is blank, but as her eyes drink in the sight of him in the dark, an eyebrow quirks up.

“You expecting trouble?” It’s light and teasing, as she too is in tactical gear. 

_The only trouble is you_ , he thinks, knowing it will show with his eyes, before moving to finish making her coffee.

“It looks good,” she continues as he opens the cupboard for sugar, and rummages for a travel cup. The world is big on sustainability these days, and Bucky is all for it. 

He pours her coffee in, staying silent under her tracking eyes as he tightens the lid.

It’s time to go.

He turns, but Natasha is already off the stool. He closes the distance between them, handing her the tumbler. She takes it from him and slides it onto the island, all the while her eyes never move from his face. Their bodies were already close, but with no coffee between them she presses fully into him. Bringing her arms around him, she gently forces his head down into the crook of her neck, his favourite spot. _Cheater,_ he thinks, and she'll know, but he sighs. He nestles in, wrapping his own arms around her, the metal around her waist, the flesh gently cradling the back of her neck. If he spends too long like this his eyes will surely betray him again, but the soft force of her hands and her exaggerated sounds means that she wants to syncronise their breathing, their heartbeats. He allows it. He enjoys it, as much as he can enjoy anything these days. 

When she’s satisfied, she releases him, with a quick thumb caress to his cheek.

She grabs her coffee and pulls out car keys, the jingle loud in the soft of the night.

“I’ll drive” she says with a half committed grin.

Bucky rolls his eyes. Sure, he could offer to drive, but he has no idea where they are going, Natasha would know that.

The car parked out front is not a S.H.I.E.L.D SUV, he doesn’t think Natasha even owns a car, but it doesn’t look lived in enough that he thinks she would have stolen it. He files it under 'unimportant, do not ask for fear of vague answer causing irritation' in his brain.

Once she starts the ignition, she hits a button on the dashboard and lets go of the wheel, the car moving of its own accord. So, it’s Tony’s, then.

He braces himself. Having only half of Natasha’s attention is usually scary enough, and the only reason she would allow a car to have control would be so that she could give Bucky it fully. Maybe he should have thought through the kitchen interaction better.

Too late now.

She studies him.

He isn’t a coward. He’s been through worse, that’s not a contest. So he meets her gaze, watching her watch him.

“Are you okay?” 

“S.H.I.E.L.D has been preparing me for years. Simulations, scenarios, reactions, it’s basically route by now.”

“James,” she sighs.

“You know you can call me Bucky,” he interrupts her.

“But I won’t.”

Bucky ponders a moment. “The Director did.”

A flash of surprise crosses her face, but passes as quickly as it comes. His lips twitch up. Visibly surprising Natasha is rare, and he revels in it. Not only because it means that he is still skilled enough to keep up, but in that it is a sort of intimate that he normally has to work hard to get from her. “What else did he say?”

“Nothing, actually. Apparently even this car knows more than me.”

“Does that bother you?”

He thinks for a moment. He supposes the details didn’t matter. He could study them later, if he needed. If he wanted. Only one thing matters, and it was already done. Long ago. “No.”

“Do you want to know more?”

“How much do you know?”

“Not much. I swear,” she protests at his dubious look. His lips twitch again, at the outburst. The high pitch of her voice, the slightest squeak at the end. Of all the identities Natasha wears, this is by far his favourite. He’d never tell her, but he has a feeling this is the closest to her actual self. The real Natalia Alianovna Romanov. And he also has a feeling he is one of the only, if not the only, to see it. Unguarded, not on edge, no lies weaved through every aspect of her body.

His lips fall at the last thought, and he looks away for the first time. Sometimes, most times, he hates the world he's unwillingly found himself in. He hasn’t seen much good of it so far, and he’s far too familiar with the bad. Specifically, the type of people who existed, who caused him and Natasha to exist.

She doesn’t take her eyes off him, and the quiet is causing his control to seep through his fingers so he nods. Small, imperceptible, but she would see it regardless.

“Russian oil team called it in 18 hours ago. S.H.I.E.L.D was always close, with our predictions and searches, but it’s a wasteland of ice, snow, water and wind. There is visibility of less than three feet in front of you. Tony will have a video feed set up if you want to see, but what has been reported as of now is that all that the Valkyrie is currently almost completely submerged in ice. Preliminary ice patterns on the outside suggest that it’s been covered and uncovered constantly over the years, so depending on the year, even if we were in the area, it could have been 10 feet above or under. It is only the fault of the world that we have not found it before tonight, perhaps even now it is only chance.” 

His jaw must clench, because she pauses. He waves a hand for her to go on. It is systematic, her review, nothing less than a mission briefing. And it is what he needs. Of course she knows that.

“The oil team contacted the Army, who in turn contacted S.H.I.E.L.D, and the closest team of two was sent out. You do not know them. They have been on location for approximately two hours, by now. They entered from above, a small exposed area of fuselage, which landed them in the main hull. It is perfectly preserved inside, somehow it hasn’t been breached by the elements, except for a small leak, potentially at the point of impact, where water has seeped into the lower levels and frozen over.”

He can’t stop his reaction this time. His uniform is too tight. No it was perfect, it’s his chest, his bones, his own skin is too tight. All S.H.I.E.L.D, training, compiled with his own personal training, has careened out the window. His mind follows them, calling them back, grasping at the thoughts. What would they find? Bones? Body parts, like himself, torn on impact? Did the cold turn him the blue of his uniform and steal away his heartbeat? Did Bucky even want to go, to be there for this? He doesn’t need that image, the final and true image, to haunt his nightmares. He doesn't want that. 

Yes. He needs to be there. This isn’t about him. 

He forces himself to calm down, as he centers himself back to the car. This is avoidable, he just has to ask.

Natasha waits him out.

“And-” but he can’t bring himself to.

“They found the shield. They have not found anything else. There is a small trail of blood suggesting he might have been underwater, and now frozen near the front of the ship.”

He looks at her. She sees the further questions.

“I told you, I am not aware of much. I have not even seen the pictures, or the feed. But hypothetically, I would sit at the controls to ensure the plane kept on the correct trajectory if I was an inexperienced pilot in an unknown airspace. Seat belt would be pointless at such a speed regardless of physical enhancements, so I would not wear one and delay the inevitable. Whether or not the plane hits water or solid ice, there would be enough force to remove me from the pilots seat. Perhaps enough to cause a head injury, in the process, causing blood and unconsciousness, depending on the angle. The plane would have been travelling in a downward angle, so impact and gravity mean that I would likely end up somewhere in the front of the ship.”

She pauses. He nods again.

“Again, hypothetically. Best case, a head injury at that speed would result in instant death. Worse case, a head injury that caused unconsciousness, meaning no consciousness in the process if the cause of death was temperature. If there was water involved, there’s a possibility of drowning. I can’t confirm exactly due to the enhanced abilities, but in any case drowning is precursed by unconsciousness. Tony will determine exactly, once we land, should you wish to know."

Her eyes look to the road, then back to Bucky.

"For now, we are driving to Dulles. Tony will meet us, he is wanting to test out a new jet he’s designed. From there, we will fly to the wreckage, where excavation and extraction will begin.”

“Whose jurisdiction is it?” He asks, having found his voice.

“American. I am not sure Germany really wants to be associated or implicated. Right now, the Army is involved for excavation purposes only, the rest will be handled by S.H.I.E.L.D. Subject to change, depending on paychecks and politics. Stark Industries has requested to be a consultant, and it’s been granted, for now. Not that telling Tony no means anything.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, though Bucky's is feigned. His mind has never been louder. 


	2. To hear you knocking at my door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a beautiful and heart wrenching cover. Take the time to give it a listen, if you will!
> 
> [All I Want, by Kodaline (piano cover)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=thPSalYOaCE)

Natasha parks the car on the runway, the keys in, she doesn’t even bother to close the door. She does, however, come around to Bucky’s side and attempts to assist him. It’s only the fear of her actually carrying him to the jet that forces him out of the car. He steps out, his legs almost purposeless, but he finds himself moving forward regardless. Tony doesn’t meet them on the tarmac. Typical, but it gives Bucky extra time to compose himself.

This is not a private jet. This is more of a- a weapon. He looks to Natasha, and eyes, _Expecting trouble?_

“Buck, Bucky, Buckaroo. Jimmy Boy, my dear Jimothy. My only yet favourite Uncle,” Tony tries, faltering as Bucky stares him down. “Welcome aboard. You wanna fly?”

It’s less of a question and more of an order, but Bucky doesn’t disagree with the idea. He slides in before the controls.

“Coordinates are set. You’ll work out the rest,” Tony says, as he closes the ramp. 

And Bucky does, quickly. It’s nice, to focus, to channel his mind into something other than _that,_ even for a moment. 

“How’s he doing?” He hears Tony mumble to Natasha, who for her good grace, doesn’t answer.

“He can hear you, you know,” Bucky calls back as the plane takes off, though of course he does know.

“Damn jacked up super soldiers,” Tony says, not bothering to whisper this time. He comes forward to sit as co-pilot, swiveling his chair to still face Natasha. “Sorry, just wasn’t sure.”

“You could ask.”

“Okay, Buck. How do you feel about going to collect the remains of your missing dead beau after 70 years.”

“Tony,” Natasha hisses, and even Bucky flinches at the quick slice of Black Widow’s venom through the still air.

Tony is unperturbed. “Well?”

Bucky takes his time to reply, to make sure his voice is light. “It will be nice to bring him home. He deserves to rest in the country he fought so hard to protect.”

“You rehearse that?”

“Every night before bed,” Bucky quips back, and Tony frowns. “Well, I am assuming there will be a public ceremony. There might even be cake.”

“I was right,” Tony says as he throws his hands up. “He’s an emotional wreck. I didn’t even bring tissues. The whole thing is compromised, and we’re trapped for hours in a tiny tin box with the geriatric version of the Hulk.”

The flight is smooth, and right now Tony’s cajoling is calming, enough for him to flick off the remaining inhibitors. He’s in control enough that he doesn’t need, or want, autopilot. Bucky thinks through the weight of his words, and the truth behind them. It will be a sort of peace to stop wondering, to stop searching.

To rest.

They both can.

He wonders if this is what his body has been waiting for. That it's held off aging, cursing him with immortality, condemned to haunt to Earth until he's fulfilled his only purpose. He hopes, he may even begin to pray, that when tonight is done, he will finally be able to join him.

“It’ll be nice to bring him home,” he whispers finally.

Nice. Not the word for it, but it’s been a long time since he's been loquacious.

“Mmm. New York?”

“That would be best. I think he’d like to be near his mother.”

Tony rubs a hand over his goatee. Bucky hates it, but can’t actually imagine him without it.

“Not sure they’re gonna want Captain America in a back lot graveyard in Brooklyn.”

“They can put Captain America wherever they want,” he growls, light but firm, but that’s all he needs to say. “You telling me you’d give up a chance to defy a governing authority?”

“Hell no,” Tony offers his best attempt at a grin. “You know I’d Captain that mission,” but winces at his choice of words.

They settle deeper than Tony probably meant them to, but they settle nonetheless. Tony shoots him an apologetic look, but Bucky ignores it. There’s nothing to apologise for, and Tony should know that.

“Any update?” Bucky calls back to Nat, and in the reflection of the modern panels he can see her and Tony share a glance.

“They’re waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you.”

He doesn’t know what to say, a nod suffices for the both of them, but the gratitude is suddenly overwhelming. When he finds his voice again, his words are strangled, and he directs his appreciation to Tony. 

“Nice touch with the star.”

“I thought you might like it. A small homage, private, not too tacky. You both deserve it.”

It’s silent as they fly, an endless stretch of water below them, but Bucky is mentally cataloging all the specifications he’ll tell Tony later, when he asks. The command of the jet, the interfacing, the comfort of the seat. Nothing he particularly cares about, but if it’ll keep Tony busy, especially in the next few days, it’s worth doing.

Tony breaks the silence. “So was he?”

“Hmmm?”

“Your beau. Your sweetheart. Your lover.”

Bucky makes sure his face is blank as he looks at Tony, before back to the controls.

Tony groans at being blatantly ignored, and Natasha steps in. “You’ve been trying for 30 years Tony. What makes you think tonight would be any different?”

“Because he’s vulnerable!”

Bucky doesn’t give Tony any indication, ever, partly because he knows it frustrates him. 

But mostly, he’s not even sure himself. They weren't, they never- Bucky did, but _he_ would never, but it was-. None of the words he thinks of, in any language, could quite describe it. What they were, what Bucky felt. And now, when it’s been so long, would any of them even matter?

He’s trapped in his thoughts when he notices a soft light, both an alert from inside the plane, and a small landing strip ahead. 

They’re here.

“Alright, gentle Sarge,” Tony mutters as they land. “Easy goes.”

Bucky wonders briefly if it’s habit, or concern for his new ship, but a glance at his left hand shows that he has, in fact, dented the control. Or perhaps Tony’s noticed the tightness in Bucky’s chest, devoid of movement, that he hasn’t breathed in while. 

Natasha wasn’t wrong about the visibility, but what he can see is infact snow, ice, sleet, and everything in between. Tony pulls out large coats, for all of them, but Bucky shakes his head.

“James,” Natasha says disapprovingly, donning her mothering personality. He wants his Natasha back, from the car ride.

“I’m always cold. The weather ain’t gonna change that.”

She tsks, but doesn’t argue further. Perhaps she too thinks he is vulnerable.

Bucky leads the way down the ramp, where they’re met by the Director, a Colonel, two S.H.I.E.L.D agents and an officer who will most likely be leading the excavation team. 

They’re escorted to a tent which does little to keep out the cold, but it's lit enough to see faces at least. They begin on a briefing, somehow less detailed than the conspectus that Natasha gave in America, but he ignores it. Not purposely, but the tightness has been replaced by an itching, under his skin, perhaps in his very cells, at being so close, and he can’t focus on anything else.

“Buck?”

It’s Tony’s voice that shakes him. He didn’t realise that they were all staring, they’re expecting, waiting. For what?

They’re literally waiting. For him. He could tell them all to walk away right now and they’d do it. Tell them to blow it up and they would. If he tried to be in there when they did, they'd allow it. They wouldn’t be happy, but they would do it nonetheless.

But that’s not what he wants.

He doesn’t know what he wants.

Actually, he does, but that died 66 years ago. Right here.

“I’d like to see it,” he says instead. The howling wind is hurting his head, his thoughts have to scream to be heard over it. 

At least he doesn't feel like crying again.

Tony can perform all his work from inside the tent, the perks of today’s technology, or simply being Tony Stark, but Bucky’s not quite sure he’d want him there anyway. Only Bucky and Natasha are taken to the exposed area of plane, where a small circular incision has been made in the metal. The crew has affixed lights inside, but from the footprints he can see from this distance, that’s all they’ve done.

Bucky is given a torch and a wire belt to lower him in. He looks to Natasha before he descends, nodding. She nods back. She doesn’t have to ask if he’s sure. He wouldn’t have motioned if he wasn’t.

He unhooks himself as he lands lightly, Natasha only seconds behind. 

His first thought is that it’s silent. Too silent. It’s jarring, after the symphony of wind and thoughts, and he takes a moment to orient himself, eyes closed so he can separate the senses. Once his hearing adjusts, he opens them slowly to Natasha’s expecting gaze.

Together they inspect what's visible of the ship, ignoring the gleam of red, white and blue that catches their torches a short distance away. Bucky reviews the railings, slightly twisted, a miniscule drop of blood on one. There’s dents up a few of the structures, even to the roof, and the cold water has not managed to wash away the evidence of blast marks.

Finally, he lets his torch land on the shield, still half frozen, just behind the pilots seat. Natasha slips a gloved hand into his human one, giving it a small squeeze before pulling him forward. He’s grateful, his own legs might be frozen, but he doesn’t think the jacket would have helped any with that. 

They approach the shield and his legs lose purpose for the second, no third, time as they collapse him to his knees. He reaches out to brush off flakes of snow that have already fallen in through the hole they entered by. 

It’s real, it’s here. 

Buck tilts his head with a sigh as he realises it’s significantly more damaged than the last time he saw it, which was only a few days, maybe a week, the history books were never quite sure, and his own memory often made a liar of him. There’s a few drops of blood on it, too. It’s not concerning, if anything it makes him chuckle a little. 

It’s the second time he’s surprised Natasha that night. She cocks her head in curiosity.

“He used to get blood noses. Not just because he was a punk who got into fights. Just because. If it was hot, if it was cold, if he stood up too fast.” He laughs again, louder and truer. “Not always a lot of blood either, just a few drops, enough to be a bother. And here I am, still cleaning it up.”

She squeezes his hand again, and he allows her to pull him to his feet.

They turn their torches to the front of the ship, the left side that’s sunken on an angle, but all they see is ice.

“What do you want to do?”

“I just want to bring him home. I want it to be over.”

“I’ll make the call. Do you want to stay down here?”

He looks around. He knows all too well, what it's like to spend your last moments in the dark, the quiet, the cold. “It’s awful down here. What a terrible place to die.” She waits. “I’ll stay.”

Natasha grabs his hand again, and tries to warm it between two of hers. “Only if you accept Tony’s coat. I’m not letting you die here too. You still owe me a round for covering your ass in Indiana.”

“Natasha, I left you half my will. It’s probably worth more than a few drinks.”

“I might not get it. You don’t even know my real name.”

“I didn’t leave a name. I just said the angry redhead. I thought that would be clear enough.”

“What if I change my hair?”

“You’re a natural redhead. Someone would pick up on it, if not Tony, once he realises he’s been left out.”

“You don’t know it’s natural.” He shocks her a third time by slowly raking his eyes down her body, settling between her legs before flicking them back up. He barks out a laugh at her expression, eyes wide, lips perfectly parted. “I didn’t think you’d be so bold, not here.”

“He’d like to know I haven’t lost my game. 90-something, and still dazzling dames.”

“Yeah, well I’m worried he’ll crawl out of his grave and throttle me for the insinuation.”

Bucky’s smile freezes, maybe it’s the cold. It was nice to forget, if only for a moment, why they were here. But the weight comes crashing back down, and the tightness is back. He’s suffocating. 

She leaves him to go relay the instructions, and lets him collect himself.

Suddenly the large open space is crowded, doing nothing for the air Bucky is struggling for. But it needs to be done, if he wants to get out of here. And he can’t get out of here, until it’s done. A semblance of a Catch 22.

Natasha comes to stand by him, wrapping a coat around his shoulders as a small crew approaches and explains that they’re going to slowly heat up the ice, drain it up through a pipe. Once they have a better indication of where the body is, they’ll stop, and begin carving a layer of ice, to keep him frozen, to transport him back to America. Tony has brought a plethora of ways to transport him, depending on what they find. After that, they’ll move outside and begin on extracting the-

“I don’t care about the plane,” Bucky interrupts. 

They scurry away.

“Told you it was warm,” Natasha murmurs, zips the coat up as he’s made no move so far, and pulls it over his fingertips, leaving her own hand in his sleeve.

“Mmm,” but he doesn’t heartedly agree. His gaze is trained to the front of the ship, where they faceless men and women are beginning to work. His eyes pick up on the small droplets of blood, but Bucky doesn’t need them to know where he is.

He just knows.

He’s so focused he doesn’t even notice the two working on the shield, until it’s being held out front of him. He begins to untangle his hand from Natasha’s to take it, but suddenly realises he doesn’t want to. He’s held the shield before, once, in the cold, in a navy uniform, and that was-

So he shakes his head instead, and they pass the shield up, no doubt to Tony who will want to see it. It’s as much a part of his history as Bucky’s.

He turns his head back to the front of the ship, and focuses on breathing and the feel of the hand in his.

They stand in silence, if silence is the drone of the pump and quiet chatter of the crew, but Bucky doesn’t mind. Brooklyn was always noisy, the streets loud even at night, and he could sleep, or dance, or perform a story regardless. He lets himself get lost in his memoirs, albeit a few details awry after all this time.

An excited rise in voices jolts Bucky back to the present. It continues for almost a minute before they stop, obviously waiting. Waiting, waiting, that’s all he’s done. But now, they are waiting on him. 

They all wait for him. 

But this is one thing he cannot do.  
  
It’s finally come, the moment, and he cannot face it. Natasha leaves his side and his eyes follow when his feet do not, inspecting her features for anything, any sign, but she’s as blank as ever. She jerks her head, and when the crew looks confused she mumbles something. 

It’s only clear what she said when every person in the sunken cavity begins back up the whole.

Natasha is the last to leave.

“As long as you need,” she says, firmly, one last squeeze of his trembling hand, before backing her way up the hole. 

He’s not quite sure what to do. They will wait for him, that is obvious, that has been shown in their words and their actions. But is it fair to take more time, when it’s already been too long? Will it help, or hurt him? Will Natasha be true to her word, and give him infinity if he asks? 

Just like only hours ago, he gives himself a simple moment before he forces himself forward.

“Hey, Stevie.”


	3. If I could see your face once more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two of my favourite covers!
> 
> [All I Want (Cover), by Emma Bale](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I3NlB4O9E_E)
> 
> [All I Want (Cover), by Steve McCrorie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DuL94uEketM)

He’s perfect, just as Bucky remembers him. And Bucky remembers him better than the showreels and the army pictures and the grainy school photo he’d impossibly stumbled upon. None of the records quite managed to capture the stubborn set of his jaw, the length of his eyelashes, how soft his hands were, or the scowl was never dark enough. The general ‘Steve-ness’ that made him him. Made him Bucky’s. And not America’s.

But here he is, in perfect Steve-ness. As much as he could be in a body twice it’s normal size, with more strength than the whole Commandos combined, but Bucky had long made peace with that.

No, here he is, simply perfect.

Bucky manages not to collapse this time, but sits himself gently, as close as he dares. Not close enough to touch, because he fears if he reaches out to touch there is nothing, not even the power of the God Steve believes in, that will stop Bucky from lying down next to him and allowing the cold to take him too. He presses his hand to his chest instead, pushing the star closer to his heart, the part that isn’t frozen in front of him right now.

He doesn’t allow himself to cry either. The tears would likely come out as shards, that’s how they feel in his heart, and Steve doesn’t need to see this. Tears can come later. When Bucky is alone, truly alone, not that he’ll be allowed for to be some time after this.

“I’m here, Stevie. I’m sorry it took so long. We tried, so hard, for so long. I failed you. But I’m here now, and I’m gonna take you home. Back to Brooklyn, near your Ma, if I can manage it, but I’m not so sure I can sweet talk like I used to, ya know?”

The words are hard, but the silence is harder.

“It’ll be America, that’s for sure. I don’t want it, but they like to think they own you. Not really, I guess it’s more than that, they love you. Not like-,” Bucky chokes again, but if this is the only time he says it, it has to be now, for Steve, to Steve. He takes a shaky breath, and on his exhale he continues. “Not like I love you, but they’ve done well with your sacrifice. They’re sure to want something big, something ostentatious and very expensive. You’ll hate it, so I’m gonna fight dirty, and I got some people in my corner. Tony, Tasha… Come to think of it, I’m not sure you’d like them either, a few questionable morals here and there, but they’ll help us out. They’ll do what’s right, and you’ll like that bit. So just for once, don’t grumble about it, and just trust that I know best and let me take care of you. One last time, let me take care of you. Because I want to, and- Stevie, I need this.”

 _I need you more,_ he thinks, but doesn't say. It's obvious, even to the still air around them.

“Right, now that that’s sorted, I- I don’t really know what to say. I don't know what to do. Honest to God, you’ll forgive me for my blasphemies, but I’m lost without you. In fact, I think I’m nothing without you. I was put on this Earth only because you were, of that I’m sure. And having you gone, is- Well, it’s worse than missing an arm, Stevie, or missing my heart. It’s missing who I’m meant to be as a whole. And it’s been that way since I fell off that damned train. I used to think I could go on, keep fighting just to live each day without you, and find out who I’m meant to be when it’s just me, but it’s just been too long now. Life hasn’t worn away at you, but it has me, and it hasn’t made me smooth like the river rocks. Some days, I don’t think I can handle it. And some days, I don't want to. But I’m scared that if I do anything about it myself then we won’t end up in the same place. I don’t believe in heaven, but I know you do, and that’s enough for me. So if that’s where you are when you’re not here, that’s where I’d like to end up too. I’ve spent almost 40 years trying to atone for some of the things I’ve done, but I might need you to put in a good word for the rest.”

“I’ve already lived my lifetime, Stevie, and then some, I don’t want to live whatever is next without you. If I ever get there, mind you. Might be a few lifetimes still before I get there. You should see me. Handsome as ever, they sure as hell tried to beat it out of me, but I guess true beauty is everlasting. I mean, just look at you,” and that last part makes him smile. It’s only a ghost of a smile, there are so many ghosts in the darkness and the cold, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

Natasha was likely right about the impact, or the water, the cause of death. Steve is lying on the ground, back flat, his brows furrowed slightly and his lips parted, maybe in a small gasp of pain. Like he just simply lay down to accept it, but Bucky tries not to longer on that right now. But for all anyone says it, it’s true. He could be sleeping. Except Steve normally sleeps lying on his side, his legs curled up slightly, or sitting up if his lungs didn’t allow it. But this moment, it’s more than Bucky could ever have expected, or even wished for, to see Steve again, and to see him so real and intact, so he’ll forgive the minor discrepancies. For all he knows, his memory has once again betrayed him.

Now that he’s said what he needed to say, the most important words, Bucky doesn’t mind the silence, but he doesn’t doubt that Steve would hate it, now that he could actually hear it out both ears. So Bucky keeps talking; he tells of his life. Every single moment, from that last Bucky saw him, reaching out on the train, to right now. He describes the feelings he didn’t even know he had, memories he has and doesn’t have, even the ones he can’t face himself. Not alone, but Steve’s here, and that makes it easier. He can talk about those things here, and perhaps he has the faintest hope of burying them in this icy tomb. He tells about significant and insignificant moments of his life.The stuff history books never seemed to care about.

“I’ve told you all of this stuff before, you know,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m always talking to you. Maybe I’m just not loud enough, but I’m scared if I talk to you too loud the shrinks’ll-. You know what, this ones on you. Guess you never learnt how to listen, even when Erskine fixed your ears. Not the size, mind you, they’re as big as ever, just the hearing part. But I forgive you. For all of it, for all the stupid shit you put me through, because I know it made you happy, and you felt you lived a good life. One day, I might even forgive you for putting this stupid plane down. I don’t want to ask why you did it, not here, it’ll make me angry, and ruin this moment, which feels like the one good thing that’s happened to me since 1945. But I think after this, maybe I’ll stop being so angry, and I can turn to the biggest pardon I’ll ever have to make. You’ve got some competition for the size of sorry needed, I told you I’m trying to make up for the things I’ve done, they made me do, but it’s you. Of course you’ll win. I still got a while to do it though, wouldn’t be surprised if it’s another 70 years or more, so I’ll keep you guessing. But I will let you hold me to it, you can haunt me until I do.”

“Hell, Stevie, you haunt me even now. But I guess I don’t know it any different, and I’m not sure I want to. So maybe I won’t forgive you, and then you’ll be around for the rest of my mortality. I’d like that, I think. I’d love that. Been told it’s not healthy, to hold on this long, but Stevie, they stripped me of everything that I am, and this is all I have left. I honestly think I’d destroy a world without it. That for sure would bar me from heaven.”

“I don’t know, Stevie, I don’t- I just,” he takes a deep breath, and says it again, braver this time, braver than he’s ever been. “I love you. Always have, and always will. And I guess that’s all there is to say.”

Finally, he allows himself to simply look at Steve. He’ll never get this time back, soon enough he’ll move from this icy tomb to a dirt one, and then his face will never see light again. Forever. So Bucky looks, no, he drinks in the features. And once he’s quenched, once it’s warmed him better than a coffee ever could, he compares it to his memory of Steve, of before the war. Before his body finally matched his spirit.

And then, just so he doesn’t forget, so he shows his appreciation of this unworldly gift, he repeats the first process, wishing somewhat that he could draw, could capture this awful beauty.

Perhaps it was an hour, or a 100, but by the time Bucky pushes himself up he’s already lived his second lifetime. He realises he now has to prepare to live his third. For all he told Steve that he’s always around, always with him, right now, he feels truly alone.

He considers just staying here forever.

Instead, Bucky walks away, not looking back before he attaches himself to the cable and tugs gently. He doesn’t even look down as he’s pulled out of the Valkyrie.

There’s only one agent waiting atop the fuselage when he gets up there, who escorts him to the tent. He ducks his head in quickly, nods, and makes his way to Tony’s jet without waiting for their response.

The Quinjet, something in the back of Bucky’s mind, tells him. He’s not going to fly it back, he’s already decided. He doesn’t want a distraction right now. He’s just going to let himself feel.

The team who retrieve Steve out of the ice are obviously far less interested in spending their own lifetime with him, the fools, so it might be no more than an hour before Tony and Natasha appear. Behind them, a team of agents carry a stretcher, carry Steve. They place him in the middle of the plane and now, free of the white beside him, he really could be sleeping. The ice refracts the light inside the jet, sparkling, and it makes Steve look like he’s shining. Steve never needed the ice for that, it’s how Bucky’s always seen him. But with the illusion, in this moment, it’s like Steve is real.

Somewhere, someone is smiling at him, and maybe it’s Steve. It’s rare, so he’s going to accept it.

If anyone talks to him, he doesn’t know it. He just keeps staring at Steve, on a bench in the middle of the plane, at perfect head height for Bucky who’s sitting down. As Natasha begins the journey home, he leans forward so his elbows are on his knees and he can push his thumb into the opposite palm, alternating, an unconscious but pacifying movement. Every so often an agent, they’re likely from the science or medical department Bucky realises and promptly decides he doesn't care, obstructs his view as they scan up and down his body, taking notes and entering data into tablets. Those moments, he doesn’t mind. He just shifts his gaze so look at Steve’s hand, or leg, or anywhere. There’s no part of him that he wants to forget.

Bucky ignores the shared glances between the agents, and he knows the way that Tony’s pupils dilate that he’s excited by his, but it’s not until Natasha moves herself away from the controls and pulls Tony aside that he shifts, and makes note to ask her later. For now, he can’t waste a second not committing Steve to memory.

They land, it’s DC, the Triskelion, Bucky notes dully. Least he knows S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters well enough that he’s comfortable, no, he’s never comfortable, but he can lower his defenses slightly and keep his focus on what’s important.

Steve.

Bucky stands, barely noticing Natasha’s light grip on his elbow as she maneuvers him. He protests as they steer away from the direction the agents are heading, but Tony nods, and Natasha pins him to the wall as the elevator doors shut. It was only the element of surprise that affected his reaction, but the instant Tony and Steve are out of sight, Natasha releases him.

“You need sleep, a shower and some food,” she says before he can get a word in. “It’s been 38 hours.”

She’s almost matched him for surprises tonight, he thinks grimly. Though, her surprises were a day and a half ago, if she’s telling the truth. Which she would be. But that’s an alarming amount of time for Bucky to not be aware of passing.

“There’s nothing you can do,” Natasha says as he opens his mouth.

“I, - I need to see,” he admits quietly. “I just need to watch.”

“Tony will have videos, he’ll take photos if you want. And after they’ve finished, you can watch as long as you want.” Bucky looks towards the door again, torn. He can overpower her, if he needs. “Everyone here is on your side, James, they understand. They understand,” she urges, “But we need you to take care of yourself too. You’re enhanced, but you’re still human.”

“If I need sleep, then so do you,” he points out. He’s being childish, but in all fairness she still has her mothering mask on.

“We all slept when you were in the Valkyrie.” He raises an eyebrow, so she adds “You were… A while. But I’ll stay, if you need.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, but he rubs his eyebrows with the thought that he is actually tired. That perhaps unconsciousness would be a reprieve. He’s decided he doesn’t like this ‘feeling’ business.

“Come on,” she says softly, gently, and it's difficult to believe that this is the same woman as the Black Widow.

Bucky settles on a shower first, because it seems to be the least effort of the three options provided. He’s not sure how long he spends, surely it’s a long time, but Natasha doesn’t hurry him. He doesn’t even really shower, just stands under the running water which does nothing to warm him.

It’s not until he can see the sun disappearing under the doors, replaced by artificial lighting, that he thinks it must have been an hour, or more, that he’s been propped against the shower wall. He has nothing to tell for it, except the memory of falling water.

In any other case, the complete and unmemorable lapsing of time would concern him, and others. But he’s not convinced, yet, that this is anything to do with the effects of his past, more so this is likely a perfectly reasonable response to what the S.H.I.E.L.D therapists would describe as a ‘traumatic or emotionally harrowing’ event. Or some other psychological term. He doesn’t focus on the specifics, just whatever he needs to do to keep the doctor's and friends alike placated.

He’s not told them, or anyone, but they haven’t eradicated Bucky's desire to be compliant, to please, for fear of retribution, just yet. Nor does he think they ever will. He’s just learnt to control his reactions better.

There are clothes waiting for him when he gets out, a standard uniform, but Bucky puts back on his own stealth uniform. Tony likes small things like that, though he’ll never say, and he deserves some sort of boon after all he’s done for Bucky tonight, the past two days, and in life.

He stumbles slightly as he walks into the living quarters. His legs failing him so constantly is beginning to worry him, but not Natasha, who holds up a plate of food. He waves her away, eyeing the coffee machine.

“Sleep, then. Food, or sleep, James, those are your two choices.”

He decides on sleep, though it might not be a conscious choice. He can feel it pulling at his mind, blurring his thoughts, numbing the feelings and the memory of Steve.

Now, when he sleeps, he doesn’t forget.

“I need to make a phone call,” he says, but she’s already pulled him onto a couch. She maneuvers him so he’s imprisoned between the couch back and her own body.

“There will be time later. Sleep, malen’kiy volk.”

And he does, without dreams. He’s grateful for that.

His mind protests that he’s woken too soon, but he can’t ignore Natasha as she rolls to untangle her legs from his own. There’s a buzzing, a phone, and it’s only been a few hours. He’s functioned optimally on less, but not for a while, and not willingly.

“Well, we weren’t wrong,” he hears Tony on the other end.

“I see,” she says simply. “We’ll be right down.”

To Bucky, she smiles. “Morning.” It’s night. “My sunshine.” He’s darkness personified. “Our pleasant dispositions and regalling personalities are required.”

“Why?” For all they seemed concerned for his health, they should let him sleep more than four hours in two days.

She doesn’t answer, just pulls him upright, then laughs as he huffs. He shoots an annoyed glance that she doesn’t see, just walks away. As he rubs at his eyes, she returns, a protein shake in hand, jerking her head to follow.

It remains untouched as they walk. “For the coffee,” she says.

“You didn’t even drink it.”

“I did. Even though you burnt it.”

“That’s likely. I could claim emotional distress though.”

“But you won’t. Now drink.”

He sighs. This is not his fight, he’s aware it might help with fatigue, and any future memory lapses. And he’d rather attempt nutrition, rather than a mind machine S.H.I.E.L.D is still barely refrained to use on him. Or he could sleep more.

It doesn’t taste bad, faintly of coffee in any case.

Once Natasha is satisfied he’s swallowed it all, she says “What did you hear on the Quinjet?”

“Nothing.”

His face must show no lie, because she accepts it. She studies him a moment, then faces away.

“What was Tony right about?”

“Tony? Everything,” she says blankly.

He sighs. “Tasha, -”

“I don’t know the details.”

“You didn’t know the details about the wreckage and yet it was much more than anyone on site.”

“This is important.”

His eyebrows fly up into his hairline. “Finding Steve wasn’t?”

Her phone rings again but she doesn’t break what Bucky can now see is a carefully constructed mask.

“Where are you?” He hears Tony, again. Patience is not his virtue. Not that he has many, but patience would not even be considered for that list.

“We’re on our way. The old man is slow,” she tries smirking, contrasting Bucky’s sudden dark scowl.

“Natasha,” he says sharply.

“I should have gotten you a Snickers, James. We’re here,” she says, a careful guard to her voice as the elevator door opens.

“Careful, I think Grandpa needs another nap,” she warns Tony as she steps in, but they share a slight look of concern between them.

It’s a small waiting room, with a large clear window looking into a medical lab. Steve is lying still, how else would he be, in the middle. There’s no longer any ice, maybe the room is too warm with all the other bodies; white coats and masks. Bucky’s anxious, a learned response he hasn’t yet unlearned, of scientists and medical personnel in a confined area. But they don’t seem to be doing anything much, nothing to Steve, just standing back, again occasionally fiddling with machines, and taking notes.

Bucky’s eyes only focus on Steve. His breath catches, that’s a bother seeing as he’s had trouble breathing at the best of times in the past few days, but it’s hard not to have any other reaction. The shine of the ice is gone, damp around him, beads of fever sweat still on his forehead. His lips have closed now, it was only imperceptible to begin with, but now that they are together completely he no longer looks asleep. He looks-.

Dead.

If Bucky was told in the past years that he would have the chance to see Steve again, as he was, as he is, his first reaction would have been ecstasy. One last chance to see a glimmer of light in this world. He’s grateful, for sure, but now that he’s been removed, and reintroduced to the situation, the sight of Steve overwhelms him, a crushing claustrophobia of despair that he’s almost sure he will never recover from.

“Miracle, a bit, I’d like to take some credit for the science side, but even that’s slightly too egotistical for me,” Tony says as he comes to stand at the window next to Bucky.

The miracle, of, what? Of getting Steve home? Of keeping him preserved so well? Of Bucky being able to look at him one last time, in real life.

But there’s an energy in the air.

“What’s going on,” he demands of Tony.

“Uhhh, well,” comes the stammer, as he scratches the back of his head. Tony doesn’t stammer, not even as a child, and the despair is replaced by a sudden defense. “We started to defrost ol’ Spangles here, and medical yadda yadda and improbabilities aside, long story short, physiologically- well, he’s not exactly dead.”


	4. I could die a happy man, I'm sure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favourite acoustic version!
> 
> [All I Want (Acoustic), by Kodaline](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-cOCmC_m23E)

The howling wind from the Arctic is back, even in America. Maybe it’s cursed to follow Steve for all eternity. 

Bucky can tell the breath that huffs out is enough to flare his nostrils because Tony takes a step back. But doesn’t say anything else. He recognises the feelings that slice through him as anger, sadness, though that’s not new, and confusion. They’re swirling in his stomach, mixing with the regret of the protein shake, and they’re threatening to push up his throat, perhaps out his mouth. 

Neither Tony nor Natasha are talking, and that’s infuriating enough for only the frustration to pour out.

“What does ‘not exactly dead’ mean,” he hisses, then shuts his eyes, hard, to convince himself this is a dream.

“It means that, to be honest, we’re not exactly sure.” It’s instinctive, reflexive, Bucky cannot stop the aggression in his breath, but this time Tony continues. “He started responding on the plane, just small stimuli. I’m amazed you missed it, I all but said the words ‘The fuck, this dudes not dead’.” Natasha, the breath is, this time. “Since we’ve been back, he’s puddling like a summer's day. And, ergo, heartbeat.”

Tony lets the words settle in, deeper than the off comment on the Quinjet, and Bucky squeezes his eyes shut even harder. Tony speaks again.

“He does, have a heartbeat, but it’s slow. Slower than we were to realise it. Once we cottoned on to what was going on, it was only one beat every five minutes, and the more we raise his temperature, the more promising it looks. It’s sitting 20 beats per minute now, still too slow, maybe not for him, but it is getting faster. In less than an hour, it should run about 45 beats a minute, perfectly normal for even a regular human.” 

Bucky’s eyes fly open. For all Tony sounds amazed, for all the elation, the overwhelming and crippling joy Bucky wants to feel, he knows there’s a catch. 

“The main concern is that his lungs were frozen solid, he must have aspirated water, I’m calling that as cause of death. Or not death. Right now, we’re relying on intravenous oxygenation, to preserve his brain, but his blood is still trying to pump through solid lungs, thanks to said heartbeat. It’s causing necrosis, and backlog of blood, and some of his extremities are poorer for lack of circulation.”

Bucky still doesn’t talk, there’s nothing he can say.

“The last documents we have state you as next of kin, I doubt they’d hold up in court but they were the best they’ve got. But I took over, Buck, I’m sorry, I told them to keep going. I didn’t think you’d have it any other way.” They did not wait, and Bucky is grateful for the first time that someone else took his control, his choice away from him. He never feels settled in his decisions, and this is the most important one yet. “We’ve been heating the ice slowly, but as it warms, we risk drowning him. We can drain it out, of course, we have been. But there’s uncalculated risks. The lack of oxygen still seems to be causing necrosis, to his brain, the ice has torn shards to his lungs, and no solutions we have are long term. If they’re even needed, he’s healing as he goes, but we don’t know how much he can heal from this.”

Oblivious to all but the concept of Steve, Bucky hadn’t noticed it before, but there are tubes and wires and all today has to offer down his nose and throat, in his wrists, his chest, obstructing half his body. 

How had he not noticed? 

He knows how.

The future is marring his perfect last memory and he hates it, even if it seems to be for Steve’s own good. But it reminds Bucky of all the doctors fussing when he was younger, and frail, and all of a sudden it’s too much. He can’t look. He turns to Tony instead. He’s still not sure he understands. 

“So he’s… alive?”

“Well, Buck. We don't really know if that’s the word for it.” 

“You said not dead.”

A pause.

“The tissue in his brain is dying, his lungs are failing, his veins collapsing. But at the same time, he’s healing, at an accelerated rate, though it now seems to be slowing. We just don’t know which one will win, life or death.”

He’s already said that, Bucky thinks, but his eyes still don’t leave Tony’s face. In a way, this is worse. Bucky can’t bear to look at Steve’s face now without being sure. It would be too cruel. He has been grateful to how this has played out so far, so grateful to get to look at Steve once more, but now, with this knowledge, life has finally played its final, and cruelest trump card.

He who giveth, can also taketh away.

Or something that aligns with that, he didn’t pay too much attention to the church. That was Steve’s parish.

Bucky should have known he was being cheated. He was never, would never, be good enough to deserve something like this.

“He could wake up singing Schmidt and punching Nazis. He could wake up and not know his name and be stuck with a machine for lungs for the rest of his days. Or he could never wake up. We don’t know. We just don’t know.” 

Bucky says nothing, for the longest stretch of time, perhaps longer than he spent talking in the Valkyrie. Tony reaches for his elbow, and says gently, “I’m sorry.”

Bucky's pretense at breaths are not flaring his nostrils anymore, but heaving his chest. God, his chest has been tight for so _long_ now, when was the last time he took a breath? He can’t breathe. He rips at his buttons, failing to release them, until Natasha appears in front of him and pulls his forehead towards hers. She laces her fingers through his, the backs of his hands pressing just below his shoulders, and closes her eyes, breathing deeply. In time, his breath, he must be breathing, slows too. It does help ease the tension in his chest.

Until his brain catches up. This is Steve. _Steve_. Not dead.

But maybe not… living.

He jerks his head back suddenly, and Natasha drops his hands so that he is free, to make a choice. He moves towards the window, and lets his forehead fall to the glass instead. He keeps his hands gripped behind his back, for fear of breaking the screen.

Eyes flickering between Steve’s face and the heart monitor, he asks, “Can I go in?”

“Let them work, James. As Tony said, no one’s really sure exactly what they’re doing, and we risk distracting them or getting in their way. Most people don’t get a second chance like this, we need to give them the optimum conditions to try.”

“Third,” Bucky breathes, fogging up the glass. “Maybe fifth, or sixth?”

“Hmm?”

“Twice, when we were young, I’ve seen his Ma so scared or a doctor so grim. And then again, just before 20. Then the serum, running from Krausberg, a bullet tore straight through him. Could almost see straight through his stomach, through to Jim trying to patch up the blood on the other side. Thought I was going to lose him the minute I got him back. But he just got up, straight back up, each time, fists raised. He doesn’t need our help, and it was never up to his body, it failed him all the time. His strength is from his mind and soul. His stubbornness will take care of everything.” 

“Well, then, we wait.”

She knows it will be pointless to ask him to sleep or eat now, and Bucky even refuses to sit. Natasha does, however, open the door herself and mumbles something, and the doctors scurry to work from one side only. So Bucky can watch. 

Watch them kill him further, or save him.

But no, this is not for them to decide. Steve’s fate was decided long ago, they’re simply the catalysts.

So yes, the only thing left to do is wait.

He doesn’t know if what they’re doing is working, or what the machines could be telling him. All he knows is Steve, lying on the table in the middle of the room.

Slowly, surely a trick of the light at first, like the sparkling from the ice, Steve’s chest rises. Then falls, then rises again. And again, until it’s a steady rhythm that Bucky can follow, instead of Natasha’s.

The machines keep whirring, the doctors keep talking, and Steve keeps breathing. They pull the tubes out, still careful to keep to one side, and Bucky’s heart contracts in time with the cadence of Steve’s signs of life. It goes on for hours, and if it went on forever, it could still not be enough for Bucky.

Eventually, the excitement inside the room dulls a little, and all but Tony and one doctor leave, and then even Tony steps out. 

“We’ve done what we can, for now. He’s breathing, his lungs have been stable and steady for two hours, but I can’t tell you anything else. You should sleep, we’ll call you, if anything changes.”

Bucky simply rolls his head against the glass, and Tony sighs even though he should have expected it.

“Well, not all of us are you. I’m going to take a nap, but I’m on call, and I’ll stay in Washington as long as it takes.”

“Thank you, Tony,” he breathes, still in time with Steve, but looks away for the first time.

Tony shrugs, and quirks one side of his mouth up, before sauntering away.

Natasha stays, not bothering to chide him when he ignores her plea for him to eat.

The second time, however, almost 12 hours later, she pulls out her previous ultimatum. “Food, or sleep, James.”

He glares at her, but his heart is not in it. His heart is elsewhere. He concedes when she adds quietly, “You won’t be any help when he wakes up if you destroy yourself first.”

He notices that she says when, and not if. He’d never taken her for an optimist, and that’s what wins him over.

So he sits, and chews far too long on not enough of whatever she places in front of him, but doesn’t take his eyes off the room.

“He won’t like it,” he says when Tony walks back in.  
  
“Speak, apparition, or be gone” Tony says and hands him a coffee. Natasha has seated herself in the corner, her eyes closed. Bucky is convinced she’s awake, at least aware, even when she sleeps, but she makes no move when Tony places a coffee beside her.

“Waking up, like this. With machines, on a table, in a lab.”

“Oh.” In a rare display, he seems lost for words. When Bucky glances at him, he explains, “Never thought you’d be the one to outsmart me. I didn’t think of that, and you’re right. I’ll see what our options are.”

They’re quiet again, then Tony pipes up, “There is of course, the other issue.”

“Which is?”

“If,” and Bucky jerks at the word, Natasha had been much more careful, and its electricity to his bones. He hates electricity. “If he wakes up, we’re not in Kansas anymore, Buck. It’s been 66 years. I don’t really envy that conversation. The head doctors think it could be bad, cause some lasting damage, if it’s not done right. They’ve got a team, they’ll set up a-”

“No. I’ll do it.”

“Bucky,” Tony begins to warn, but he’s quickly cut off.

“I don’t care. They might know stuff about the mind, about medicine, about words, but they don’t know Steve. And there’s no one else left alive that does, not like me. So it has to be me. I want him to wake up in 1945 with me, and then I’ll figure out the rest.” He pauses, and braces himself. “Besides, you know I don’t think the doctor's are exactly helpful.”

The admission is a small sacrifice, but he’ll make it for Steve. Steve, who sacrificed, or tried to at least, his life.

“I didn’t know that, actually.” 

Bucky waits.

“Nightmares?” Tony’s single word is light, curious, but Bucky has nursed him since he was a babe, knows all his cries and their meanings. Tony is concerned.

“Not exactly,” Bucky admits. It’s easier to speak of this, with Steve here. But with someone else listening, it’s still hard.

“Aw, Buck,” Tony says, and his voice is coloured only with sadness now. He seems to struggle for a moment, then adds, “I’ll erase that from the security footage, if you promise it’s not Clockwork Orange here.” Bucky nods, but the coffee does little to comfort him through this. “We should hang out more. It’s been a while, and I can-, I could be there for you, even if it is only to join your pity party and self-loathe over margaritas together.”

“We are having a party?” Natasha asks, no longer feigning sleep, and pulls her chair over. “You shouldn’t have brought coffee, Tony. He needs sleep, not more caffeine.”

“This stuff is as much of a stimulant to him as Kombucha is alcohol, Nat. And it’d make me look bad if I get everyone a coffee but him. I have an image to uphold, you know this.”

She grumbles, but turns to Bucky instead. “Please sleep. Please trust us to watch over him. We will let you know when things change.”

“I can’t,” and he hopes she knows that this isn’t about trust.

She does, yet she is clearly unhappy about it. He knows she loves him, but this isn’t jealousy, no, they’ve long since defined their relationship to exist without that. They are only what each other needs in that moment. Her displeasure stems from the side effects of love, the pure and unconditional desire to care for him, and make sure he is okay, and to feel it herself when he is not.

But there are some things even love cannot fix. Bucky knows that all too well.

But perhaps not, for here he is, sitting in a waiting room 66 years into a future he never thought he would have, watching a man who he believed in all of his bones, both present and missing, to be dead, take breath after breath.

Bucky knows he’s already been given so much these past few days, but he can’t help but ask for one more thing. For Steve to be okay.

Almost as soon as he asks, he is given. In this moment, he almost believes in God.

The machines beep in a cacophony of alarm, and Tony’s on his feet only moments before doctors rush in, some new, some unknown. Bucky finds himself pressed against the glass without conscious thought as they move within the lab, Tony weaving between them with the grace of a dancer.

He’s frowning, even as he steps back into the waiting room.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asks as soon as the handle turns.

“Uh, nothing.”

“Tony,” he whines, urgent.

“No, actually nothing. That’s the pleasant sound of him telling us to kindly fuck off.”

His chest tightens again, but this time it offers relief. “So he’ll be okay?”

“His body, yes, seems to be okay. We have no idea, we won’t have any until he’s conscious. But for now, he’s no more than sleeping, rather than before when he was… Suspended.” 

Bucky barely knows the difference, and does not care, except that no one else currently seems to be concerned and the machines are no longer screaming, they’re being removed. He’s had enough time to study them, to work them out, to know what they do and how they do it, to even assemble them himself, but he hasn’t.

He doesn’t care.

He does care, however, when they make preparations to move Steve.

“What’s going on? Where are they taking him?”

“You said you wanted command on this, Bucky, so we’re listening. He’s sleeping now, there’s no need to stay here. We’ll move him to a room, not a lab, where he can be comfortable. ”

It’s at this point the Director himself enters, and exerts his power over Bucky's wellbeing.

Bucky begrudgingly sleeps for 45 minutes while they settle Steve into a more agreeable room, still on the medical level. Natasha is true to her word, and wakes him just as they’re finishing tucking the sheets up to Steve’s chest, his arms free. He wants to ask them to lay him on his side, bend his knees a little, so he’ll be comfortable, but he’s afraid it will come out like a beg. And begging will take him to a dark place that he cannot be in when Steve wakes up. 

When. Not if.

“I know you said you wanted to do this your way, but a lot of people are advising a slow re-integration. No technology, no clothes, that could cause immediate shock. We still don’t know what he will wake up like.”

Bucky agrees. Had he thought that far ahead, it’s what he would have suggested.

They’ve done well with the room. It’s bare white walls, no windows, but it doesn’t seem like a cell. Even Bucky doesn’t feel trapped. The bed sheets are plain, a navy with white undersheets, and a white pillow. There’s nothing else, except a small table beside the bed that looks too old for today’s time, but could be new for 1945. Atop it is a glass of water, presumably for him, and a few books that he’s read but won’t mind re-reading. That is, if he could ever stop looking at Steve. There’s a chair, for himself, that’s comfortable enough, but not shocking, and Steve himself has been changed into plain clothes, a simple white shirt and navy slacks.

The only variable left is Bucky himself.

“You hair,” Natasha murmurs, running her fingers through it, taming it though gently, not like he is an animal. “Your choice,” she adds.

And for all that it might help Steve, he’s not sure, he-. 

It is his choice. His first ever choice. The first choice he consciously remembers making after 23 years, longer Peggy tells him with a pinched expression, and one of the only choices he feels comfortable making, even now. That there’s no punishment for long hair, or short hair, or no hair should he wish. But he doesn’t. He wants it long, to tickle his shoulders, to pull it back or even braid it. He can’t cut it, can’t let go of that part of himself. The reminder. That he can choose, he can grow, that even the parts of him that are dead can continue in this life. 

“No,” he says, and her eyes warm.

He must look grieved at his own decision, because she says, “It is okay to want things for yourself, James. It is human. We all want things, and we all want you to want things. He will be upset if you do this for him.”

Before Bucky can lose, before he can spiral on ifs of the future, he looks to Steve, and says firmly, for both him and Natasha, “My hair. My choice.”

“Good. But these clothes might help.”

That part is true, and he doesn’t mind changing. He’s given clothes that he’s not seen in fashion for a long time, and they’re both familiar and foreign at the same time. But they fit, and they cover the shine of metal, with a single glove, so now the only difference Bucky can see in himself is his hair. 

And his cheeks, which look a little more sallow, if you were to compare them to photos from the war. He inspects himself closer, because now that’s not the only difference. His eyes, they seem to be a different colour than he knows them to be. Somehow, they’re darker. Even against the dark circles underneath them. His skin seems tighter, but it’s not the skin he realises, it’s his expression, he tries to rearrange it, but no matter how his face moves, there’s an underlying guardedness to it. Another ghost, the one that battles with the ghost of Steve constantly.

But no matter now.

He re-enters the room, and Natasha and Tony are waiting for him. There’s so much waiting, lately.

Bucky has waited 66 years.

“I will be there when you call, and no sooner,” Natasha says, and brushes her lips lightly against his cheek.

“You have my number,” Tony grips him firmly on the shoulder in contrast. “We’ll know all the details in the meantime, of course, but let us know when you want some company. And some help,” Tony says firmly. "Let us help."

And with a sense of finality, they leave. Bucky’s not sure when he’ll see them again, under what circumstances, but he’s not sure of anything, anymore.

The only thing he’s certain about is Steve. 

So he sits, pulling the chair close, closer than he dared sit in the ice of the Valkyrie.

And while he still has the courage, he reaches for his hand.

In that moment, Bucky almost weeps.

He’d always known, but has forgotten, just how warm Steve is. How his fingerprints are so pronounced that Bucky can feel their individual grooves. The way his hand rests naturally, slightly cupped, index finger breaking free of the almost perfect space in his palm. The softness of his skin, disguising the strength of his hands, his soul, a strength he’s had since birth, no matter that people believed he was weak before the serum.

And it makes Bucky fight hard to find a similar strength not to reach up and trace every part of Steve.

He doesn’t stop the single tear that escapes, that’s not a choice he has, so he brings Steve’s hand up to his cheek to trap it there. This, he knows, will be okay. Steve has wiped away more tears of Bucky’s than this in his lifetime, and Bucky repaid him by wiping away blood.

But Steve is so still, he makes no move either way.

Without windows, it’s only Bucky’s watch that tells him how much time is passing. Though they’ve given him an analog watch, not army issued, so he could be out by at least 12 hours. In the end, the most constant decider of days passed is the scheduled badgering of meals brought to him, then removed, untouched.

He’s too busy directing his touch elsewhere.

He tries not to sleep, not to move, except to lay Steve’s hand back down so it will be more comfortable when he wakes, but it’s becoming agonising. It’s not the sharp ache in Bucky’s back, the fire in his neck, the dry of his eyes as they fight against dreams and nightmares, but simply the torture of time itself. Of waiting a second longer than he already has, then seconds more, and not knowing when the seconds will stop. Of having Steve, here, so close and even in his hands, but not yet here fully, with the knowledge that it might not ever be any different than this.

Bucky reads without seeing the words for a small part of the time in the hopes of distraction, but it doesn’t hold him, so looks at Steve without focusing the features for the rest. He was never good at dissociating himself from pain, but this by far is the worst.

In the end, he’s not strong enough to defeat sleep. Bucky fights, he always fought against what was forced on him, the files say some and his battered body says the rest. He fights sleep, but he does not fight the desire to lay his hand under Steve’s and lean forward to press his cheek into the warm. He only means to have it feel like Steve is holding his hand, rather than the other way around, and look at him from this angle, a new angle, but the minute his cheek brushes skin, he no longer sees the world in front of him.

A small movement, not his own, pulls him from the dreamless limbo. It’s only a slight motion, from above Bucky’s head, and a brief pressure against his own hand, which leaves as quickly as it comes.

It’s the soft sigh that finally breaks the spell of sleep that has kept Bucky paralysed. It’s no more than a simple breath, though Bucky will never be ungrateful for each and every simple breath Steve takes for the rest of his life. He raises his head in time to see the blue, his memory an injustice of just how blue, of Steve’s eyes disappearing, eyelids already drifting shut, butterflies appearing under the delicate skin.

He has to try.

“Stevie?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you for sticking with me this far!  
> If you would like to keep traveling with me and overcome this suspense, no spoilers, but the next work won’t be from Bucky’s point of view, but still Bucky centric! There’s a preface already posted as part 4, I'm not that cruel.  
> It’s hopefully a little less angsty (I don't have emotions but apparently the characters I interact with do), maybe even a bit of humour (I think I'm funny, at least), did someone say fluff (?god please no) but it's not yet finished so I make no promises. The characters run the story, I just scribe.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are truly appreciated. I'm always striving for ways to improve my writing and storytelling so please let me know!


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